Mixedmedia canvas 150 x 300 cm

It is in motion, it is a coming into being, a return to a space in which it will move about the cores of the heart, it beats in ways that could sway, made of felt or clods of clay it is also always the opposite, i.e., red and resin so bitter so sweet also in the white field, i.e., stone or boulders in folds of black that could be a lane that can lean or beam out there. It is something that could be toppling into the heights and shielding itself as a wall of linen that overflows and then is gently blown over as if it by the storms before it, waiting in its wake like a line, that stirs in the resting eye within it making a clip or clop or calling whoa at the summit to a team without drawing in the reins something becomes delineated in the base and lo and behold it is full and turns into the mouth that pours forth while gliding unsecured on the cliff binds or winds into unthreaded gusts so to speak elsewhere in the network of veins coiling around the resinous core of the matter, and that too is there reminding us here or now but hey where is the plough of the cow in the grass that is black before my eyes that to the contrary glows red in part and therewith beautifully in the pall while it is raising you even soaring when it holds the world open in the opaque white fabric of linen, and ink – a piecework, a chord that stands and still turns the whole on the path winding around the vis,i, ble when they land do they even create the grey and eradicate the fear for you?

In other words:

The loop seen and termed as such in the picture often points at, but in this pointing out leaves open the goal. It is a pointing from here but not necessarily to there. The indexically obvious, known as region, reveals itself and lies somewhere between the white and the grey, the inner and outer canvas are stretched. Only briefly does the obvious stay in the image of the mind; it flows from the picture and eye back into the picture and because the contrast between white and grey is reconstructed as region and thus impresses, and not only expresses itself. In the core of the painting, the loop opens up the perceivable in a game without rules, as a trans-formation of the specific – one form overlaps the other without losing its power: resting head or – open thread, pipe or human being, scoop or loop, the scope of the hand or landscape. Similar things conjured up by the imagination do not become analogies because the first form turns into the second, and so on. But it does, in turn, turn inn: for example, the think pot with a spot for or from which no drop falls, or the hand that gives shape to the land. What we can see here is less an attempt than a temptation, less a test arrangement than the production of longing in intuitive feeling and in envisaging, and in living out emotion: the potentials of tenacity, but pushing them over each other at the blurred edges here, without any norms of the template that are congruent there. Such adjustments not only conjure up memories of the object; it is not a thing from the past that helps us become familiar with the unfamiliar, or mitigates the intimidating. It is a form that turns up, yet remains unknown, indeed, foreign when it wants to. “Like a moped that won’t start.” (T.P.). Its familiarity does not remain concealed, it shows up: barely said, already shown! The previously mentioned foreign is the familiar that sets off a chain of similarities, ignites but does not go as far as creating analogies of identity. The transcendence and the uncanny in the emergent are at the same time two: stalagmite, a black whole, a core in the firmazement, universe, all.

Grey illusion should not be interpreted as grey utopia; it is what it had become. A mixture of black and white becomes one single unit of colour that points at several units, touches them and becomes united with them. This is the entire herd of society. It can be a human one and mingle with the flowers at the edge of the path, the way they are. They are not there; they can be seen. Which means, they are there.

The lack of absence becomes a celebration of presence, a utopia of illusion that is not rooted in the object but in the I, tumbling around in the I. And once it is in the shadows, it will at some point move. Then it will get out of them and away, leaving all sadness behind it. It looks, but looks too long without a view over faith in what is possible. There is more of this than meets the eye. It comes from memory in the moment the picture is perceived, which is a constant process of articulation. It remembers something that is within itself, but much more something that is outside its self. The sadness that normally inflicts the I in the shadow of the object and thus becomes courage that encourages a sanguine faith. Faith is no ornament on the grave (coffin or grass), in the flowerbed it is less soil than light glowing in it and from it. And it rises in the mountains – borrowed from the imagination – high. Cowering there are people, things, plants and we, as noble as white, as poor as rich, suffering but not (raised) without song. We move on (love and body) never glancing down at the valley, for the eye is claptrap when it is beholden to accomplish something there. All that I see could also be something different, speech, too, when it clears away the basis and the ground (Earth) and surrounds itself with the layers of a constantly changing weave of stroke and line, both without point. And we sail along on the Alps, the supposedly stormy winds silently break out inside, the silent roar of sounds that could be from the snow or from the scuttling of coals, the wood or the or the coke that is burning in the stove that is a hearth, an open fire area, oftentimes proved to be fuelled by laser light. Traces of abstraction are trapped in the peak of the mountain, made sensuous after the ice, melting away in the flight of (pale cast) thought. Wherein does its point of combustion lie: Above the treetops? In the needles? On the disc? Stone or vinyl? Tree or disc? Analogue or digital? That would be the height! In the arts, it is so in any case. Self-motivation, but going downward tone in tone (not necessarily mono). Above, gentle in breaking piece by piece (the crackling of clouds frequented by crystals). Hunt and horn do not appear; no bustle to be seen, to be heard in the picture, but a smart heat that could come back from the front. Not put away yet, still in stand-by position. A lot comes together here and a lot is thrown down or rinsed out – scratching and scraping feet in a jig and dance between the sounds of chords, i.e. fine herds of visions, without question:

Who fans the fire, a fiery fete it is, and far above the foot of the mountain glow their sparks. Warmed at their hearths we will crash in and talk, amused about the clods we will go out, we will strike the bristling canters, we will open up and retain contact – still in touch (arm in arm) with the next form, which, as it seems, turns up heated. But surprises us as it turns cold because it is integrated into the possible opposite, which is not the done thing, sounds as if it were, self-eroticising, cool, rattling ecstasy, a wireless drama, one of them even hangs an unique loop around and beyond, always a bit different in the next moment. Common sense is not quite effective here (“Will we look good in the mirror tomorrow morning?” “Don’t know it, don’t shave” end of quote without beginning, thanks!). Is it believable, can it be understood that we just stand around from hearing and seeing? And seek, and tell how all this works, how it just flows, so unheard of and different and yet so assertively forceful in the way it comes, but always with other – signs, words, terms, images, sounds, melodies, rhythms, each one separately and alone and all in one – as phenomena of being, which being, huh?! And what would that be, that is, the circumference, the depth, the height, or, for example, things assigned to this height such as house, tree, flower, human being, animal and the first representation that is already wrong and all that follow only the cold froth of a hot beverage?

Once again the first:

What revolves around this structure, in any case or exactly neither nor: shown in the mixed sentences –in ten scenes. Ask me it, a mistake. The path of the text and of seeing lay ahead, as such of itself – in ten scenes of sentences, as such the deer, the reed, the skin, the coat, sweat, milk, the horn, the mountain, the hairs, the field, white, the white, the green, is missing, though in the painting there is, the pro-noun, and there with join the picture union, it shows an animal roving about in the landscape shaped by the head and hand, it was just standing around, making noises, sn-o-o-rting, gr-u-u-nting, the hand cupped like a pipe, like this, or maybe not, it should be a slow-motion rush(ing) sound that gradually bundles into a sudden bang, a shot even, and the deer goes down, not really (barkedly) wounded, without bleeding, back in the reed, reading the hand on the sand, the next promise, the next wish, a mistake caused by not hearing exactly and so an unheard of something – that is what pulsates there, sound-crested, a shudder before the ladder, it is hanging on the wall, pushes itself up, winds its way up, thinner, then the top, rotating friction, movement of the ear, crossed over.

And now: We want to give in to it, back again into the picture we return, we are moving on at the beginning of the beginning in the ear and on in the eye, with foot in hand!